


The Plucking of a Cosmic Harp

by Dryad



Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: AU, Gen, Shamanism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-03
Updated: 2017-06-03
Packaged: 2018-11-07 23:56:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11069745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dryad/pseuds/Dryad
Summary: "Mankind has got to get back to the rhythm of the Cosmos..."~ DH Lawrence





	The Plucking of a Cosmic Harp

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lynndyre](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lynndyre/gifts).



James raised the slim yellowed bones above his head and clacked them together one-two one-two one-two, heartbeat quick. He kept his eyes on them, humming the Song of Recall all the while. To his left, just inside the circle he had raised, stood Lewis, attentive but otherwise unmoved. He refused to feel like an idiot. He had had years of training to do this, no matter how foolish he looked.

The problem was that he was hyper-aware of Lewis, the way he stood, the possibility of his skepticism - no, the _probability_ of his skepticism - the way he was fully dressed in his pale grey suit that made him look like a wraith in the fog, while James was shirtless, his chest smeared with red clay perfumed with sandalwood oil, the sigils looking like nothing more than random swirls and swooshes. He was aware of the goosebumps on his skin and how his nipples had risen in the chill of an early autumn morning, the mist lifting, but not soon enough for his liking.

The bones began to clack on their own, a more random rhythm. Beyond him, a ghost groaned and rose out of the ground. James took deep breath and Enquired. 

The impressions he received in turn were heathered wisteria melancholy. 

_Why must I rise? I want to sleep, let me sleep, let me rest -_

James flinched. Just because he had a skill, that didn't mean he liked to use it. _Come, tell me_ he cajoled. _Sleep will come..._

Fleeting glimpses of war came to him, of running and screaming, of terror, of utter despair. A hand upraised, a stone ax -

Lewis caught him as the ground rose up to meet him. James reeled like a drunken sailor, unable to keep his balance from the blow to the head he had received, thousands of years before. That was enough for the ghost to break with him and vanish down into the earth, the bones falling from James's nerveless fingers a moment later. He slumped to the ground, leaning on one arm, grateful for the warmth of Lewis's hand upon his shoulder.

"All right?" asked Lewis, his voice gravelled and low.

Unsure of his legs, he had to rest for a minute or two, panting as the rush came upon him. Finally he managed to get to his feet, Lewis watching sharply all the while. "Sorry, that doesn't usually happen."

"The ritual or you suddenly collapsing?"

"Both. Either."

Lewis nodded, but his gaze was still intent and James had the feeling he didn't miss much. Lewis glanced down, raised an eyebrow. "Oh, you can go," said James, hastily breaking the circle of salt and powdered white chalk with his toe. "Sorry, ordinarily I don't have witnesses."

"That's why we do the jobs we do, son," said Lewis, stepping over the white line instead of just walking over it like everyone else did.

Right. James was not sure if Lewis's comment was a very subtle joke or if he was being serious. He hoped for the former; DI Knox had all the humour of a brick in the face.

Lewis didn't seem particularly keen to get back in the car, which made James feel a little better. It was a lovely day when the wind paused to take a breath, bright and sunny. Alas, it was also March, when a chill could come on at any moment, so James ignored the drying mess of clay to put on a vest, followed by his button-down. Today it was a soft canary yellow which contrasted nicely with the navy of his suit. Keeping an eye on Lewis, who was now leaning against the car with his eyes closed, face tilted up to the sun, James put on jade green socks and black brogues and knotted his celadon tie with the tiny cream paisleys with such haste tongue and tail were almost even. He was going to itch like hell from the clay until he had a chance to shower, which was a pain, but needs must. First impressions and all that.

"Sir, we'd better get back to the station. Turns out Crichton's bones are older than he thinks."

The panda that had brought Lewis had already left, leaving James to be trapped with this old-new DI in his car. Which was hardly a great way to think about it, he knew. The problem was that he had yet to mesh with any of his fellow officers.

"You've just returned from abroad, sir?"

Lewis nodded, staring at the shops as if he had never seen them before. Of course, he had been away for some years, perhaps they were completely new to him. "Yes...still a bit odd being back, to be honest."

He lapsed into silence, and James couldn't think of anything else to say, either. 

A few minutes later flashing blue lights caught his eye up ahead. He slowed, to see if anyone needed help, and almost pulled over when he saw a resigned looking Knox blowing into a breathalyser. Thinking better if it a half-second later - Knox would kill him by gaze alone - he continued on. 

"Someone you know?" asked Lewis, glancing over his shoulder.

"My DI," said James. With any luck they would be back at the station before Knox arrived, then he could pretend he knew nothing.

"Doesn't look like the first time he's ever use one of those."

James shook his head. "He's going to get suspended if he keeps it up. I don't understand why he doesn't have me drive for him."

Hardly the most politic thing to say. It added on another layer of worry to his over burdened brain, and he decided to add on another mile of run for penance. "Sorry, sir. You don't need to hear that sort of thing on your first day back."

"Keep your 'sorry' to yourself until you've done something truly terrible," Lewis said through a yawn. "We all have our bad days."

Some at the station were inclined to think that every day was a bad day when they had to work with James. In his more bitter moments, he rather thought the same about them. "Sir."

"Make a right here, if you please," Lewis gestured sharply, eventually had James park on a side street he had walked down, but never properly investigated.

Lewis brought James to The White Heron, a pub which didn't sound particularly British, was run by a transplanted Californian and his English husband, and served New British cuisine with a Californian twist.

Though Lewis looked askance at the menu, he ordered from it nonetheless. They sat in silence until James couldn't stand it any more.

"I don't do that often, sir," he said, very carefully not looking at Lewis out of the corner of his eye. He felt an itch on his neck and desperately wished he could have a scratch. It was just drying clay, he knew that, he _knew_ it, yet that didn't keep the old tales at bay. _They crawl on you, they want to live again, they'll ride you when you come back, when you break the circle_ was Ruarigh's whisper, but Ruarigh was dead, dashed to pieces at the bottom of the cliff.

"Death Magyk was frowned upon not that long ago."

"I was brought up beyond the border," muttered James. He hated this part. "Far north."

Lewis reared back in his seat, now looking at James with frank curiosity. "How far?"

"Cromba. Inbhir Nis. Summers in Ulapul and Leodhas. Who knows, sir, maybe you have ancestors in Leodhas."

"Possibly. My family's from Northumberland, so it wouldn't surprise me if there's some connection. Probably under the sheets only, as it were."

Which was a bold thing to admit to a stranger.

"So tell me, how did you come upon this talent of yours?"

James took a deep breath. "My father was caretaker for Crevecouer here in Oxfordshire, but I spent most of my formative years with my Uncle Iain and Aunt Isla, who were ethnographers with a particular interest in the native occult of the Northern peoples."

"And somehow that lead you to Magyk?"

"It was an accident. I was playing with some of the local lads and I tripped and fell. Apparently began speaking in tongues shortly thereafter, followed by very strange dreams. A shaman knocked on the kitchen door exactly seven days later, and here I am now," James remembered the shaggy man as clearly as he could see his own hand. Ruarigh had been menacing from the start, though James had soon learned he was one of the cheeriest people, possibly in the history of the world.

"Your parents must have been quite taken aback by the news," Lewis said gently, as if he knew that James had known they were happier with him out of the way.

"Well. It wasn't really what they had in mind for their youngest child."

Lewis nodded, leaned back again as their food was served.

Deconstructed New England clam chowder for James, along with a lobster roll and chips, and a jacket potato filled with lamb tikka masala, a large American style salad, and an onion kulcha for Lewis. They both tucked in without hesitation, though James was a little leery of the chowder. He was fairly sure all of it should have been served in a single bowl, rather than haphazardly strewn across a plate with a large mug of creamy broth on the side, but whatever. He was hungry. Playing the bones always had that affect on him.

Lewis didn't appear to be in a rush to get to the station. James was a little anxious, because he was sure Knox was blowing his fuse, in which case it didn't matter if he hustled Lewis out of the White Heron or not. Knox would be on the rampage whether or not James was late, or if he had a good reason or no. 

"Why'd you come back here?" asked Lewis, mopping up the last of the masala with the bread. "You could have stayed up north and become a shaman, or an interpreter. Be a peacekeeper."

James shook his head. "Too cold in the winter. The wind comes off the North Sea and that's me done for. Even though it's warmer on the west coast, it's somehow more damp, gets into your bones even more. Besides, I like summer. It's easier to row when you don't have to wear a wetsuit."

Nodding, Lewis shuddered. "Aye, I went into the Tyne once or twice when I was a lad."

James waited for more detail, but Lewis was concentrating on inhaling his salad. James wasn't sure if Lewis was enjoying the salad or suffering it through it for his health, either way, something about the expression on his face was greatly amusing. "Excuse me," he finally said, pushing away from the table to use the toilet and, more importantly, pay the bill.

By the time he returned, Lewis was also ready to leave. James kept up a running stream of nonsense, because he was nervous about seeing Knox and Lewis was actually pleasant to talk to. He found himself unexpectedly relaxing, so much so that Oxford's old ghosts were beginning to fade from his sight. Not that he wasn't used to seeing ghosts all the time, the town was filled with them, yet there was a huge difference between calling one up in a circle and opening one's bathroom door to some poor person who'd had the misfortune of a stroke while sitting on the toilet, fifty years earlier.

"It was nice meeting you, sir," said James, thumbing the button on his key fob.

Lewis came around the car, fiddling with something in his pocket.. "And you an' all. Why don't you come up to my office, I've got a job for you."

"Ah...DI Knox is expecting me, sir," James winced. God help him.

"No, he isn't," said Lewis, grinning. "You've just been assigned to me. Call came in while you were spending a penny. Innocent says you're to keep my 'bad behavior' in line. " 

Oh?

"Call it magic of me own," Lewis patted James on the shoulder as he walked by, leaving James insanely curious as to how that kind of magic worked, because he could sure use some of it in his personal life, too.

"So what about Knox? Did he request someone else to be his bagman?"

"Don't know, don't care," replied Lewis. " _I_ requested you."

Oh...why? "Why?"

"I sense a kindred spirit."

An interesting turn of phrase, not one usually used around people who could speak to the long dead.

"Besides, Knox didn't know what he had," Lewis said casually as they started up the stairs.

James was astonished. "Thank you, sir."

"I think we'll get along well together, don't you?"

He could do nothing more than nod, and wonder if he should perform another ritual when he got home. It couldn't hurt, and maybe some questions would be answered. "Yes, sir."

"And call me Robbie. 'Lewis' was me grand-dad's name and I don't think I'm half as good as he was."

"Good at what?" murmured James sub-voce.

"Various and sundry, Hathaway, various and sundry."

**Author's Note:**

> Oh, I so wanted this to be longer, but the Muses were all NOPE.
> 
> I hope this covers a little of your request!


End file.
